To Somebody Who Will Never Be Me

So you’ve made your choice. And I really don’t care.
You finally figured it out. You want everybody to adore you in that kind of fake, sycophantic high school kind of way? Then I’m NOT the person you take along for the ride. You desperately cared and I really didn’t. So the only thing to do was to sprinkle a little memory dust with possible side effects of denial and wave goodbye in that arrogant anglophile way of yours. So completely high school.
Except that this actually was high school, so I really shouldn’t be all that surprised. It shouldn’t shock me that the smile on your face I always thought just looked fake actually was fake. It shouldn’t shock me that your jokes about who really did most of the work were really too genuine snide remarks to try and cut me down. And it shouldn’t shock me that suddenly I realized—and it appears I was the last person to see this—that what everyone else thought about you was right. Except that by the time this epiphany hit me, nobody thought it about you anymore. At least not to your face.
These were thoughts I actually defended once upon an adolescent idiocy. “She’s weird” was countered with, “No, she’s quirky and funny.” “Everything about her is annoying,” and all I could say was “you don’t know her at all, so you can’t say anything.” These were actual things people said about you, and actual things I (at the time) honestly responded with. I really believed all this. We always laughed together. And I thought this was the real “us.”
Funny though, because it took us going halfway across the world on a trip we planned together for something to rot back home. You acted like you didn’t know me, you refused to make eye contact with me, and suddenly I was just the girl you went to school with.
Forget that we just spent two years with people comparing us to the Bobsey twins.
Forget that our Halloween costumes, our turns as each other, were hits.
Forget that the one moment I shined in that slimy social hellhole of cliques and reputations was a moment I shared with you.
This isn’t sentimentality. This is not nostalgia, and I want none of it back. But people should know that it was one thing to ignore me, but it was quite another to actively take pot shots at me. Nobody tries to make me look stupid without looking like an idiot herself. You may have everyone pretending to be your friend now, but remember sweetie that I’ll always have the last word. See, if I ever have to see you again, you will finally understand that if you think it’s okay to be rude and treat me that way in front of other people, I will also think it’s okay to embarrass you in front of other people because of it. And that’s a weird thought only because I don’t know if I want to see you again. I don’t because life is too short to spend another minute with you on this planet. But I kind of do just so you can stare at the result of your petty, pathetic little games. But you can’t help it. You’re just a petty, pathetic little person.
Will I be any worse for the wear? No.
Will I be better than you (still?!)? Absolutely.
And you’ll hate that because that’s precisely why you started tangling with me in the first place. It took me a long time of everybody (and honey, I mean everybody) telling me this for me to finally see it was true. I was always better than you and you knew it. I got everything I wanted, that you wanted too, but without all the extra help along the way. I got all the things that were supposed to be reserved for people like you, the higher tier of whatever the fuck you think society is. I got to be low brow and still enjoy a finer experience abroad. That trip halfway across the world was supposed to be yours, and you still hate that, guess what, I have those memories now too. And great ones. I made friends that were better to me and got closer to me in a month than you did in three years, and a wonderful boy who fell in love with me. And all you did was come home with a bitter taste in your mouth.
And 18 months later…I’m happy. I’m happy with who I am, where I’ve been, and what I’m doing. And I’m happy that we’re not friends. I’m happy that while I get to be exactly who I am—and people love me for it by the way—you still get your kicks out of being something that you’re not, and will never be. Oh, you have a few things to your credit. You have your books and your wit and your righteous pride to keep you warm at night.
But you’re still arrogant. You’re still a snob. You’re still not British. You’re still not aware that some words are pronounced certain ways in the United States. You’re still not cognizant of the fact that your conceited, prissy little act is not cute.
And I’m doing damn well.

A Poem: Texts I'll Never Send

This is nothing but a collection of things I've thought about sending you via that technological contraption we calls texts, but that I didn't send and will never send. For whatever reason, be it pride, self-preservation, or simply that Greg Behrendt tells me not to, you will never get these:

What on earth did you mean by "hang out"?
Do you really think a text is an acceptable substitute for a phone call?
I'm bored. I scrolled through my contact list. That is all, nothing more.
It's a yes or no question, how hard is that?
I know we haven't talked in years, so you either don't remember me or I left such a horrible impression that you're ignoring this text.
I'm really afraid that the texts I send you become part of a show-and-tell deal between you and your friends
Really? Be vaguer.
My five-year-old cousin spells better than that.
You have a full goddamn keyboard on your phone. How hard is it to just spell out the word "you"?
I sent you a text like 10 minutes ago. Why have you not written me back?
I can't tell if you're angry or joking. I'm afraid to respond.
I was testing you just now. You did not pass.
I would never have the guts to say this out loud.
Seriously, I didn't mean that literally, I just wanted to see if you would bite.
Please tell me you're joking.
I have no idea what you just said.
Why is it so hard for you to just text back in a timely manner?
I wanna text you back, but I didn't get yours until hours after you sent it so it might be awkward.
I'm 90% sure you have the wrong number, but I'm really tempted to write back.
Why must you insist on returning my thoughtful messages with "K" or "Sure"?
Do you really miss me?
Are you drunk?
When will you understand I do not engage in sexting?
Why don't you ever text me first?
Yes I own handcuffs but I'll never admit it.
I'm really not sure how to gracefully exit this conversation.
You wouldn't have sent me that message sober and it depresses me.
NO, "i luv u" is not equivalent to texting "I Love You," or, hell, even saying it.
Would you actually wink at me, or is the smiley just convenient.
When did texting replace actual phone calls.
I'm trying to flirt without seeming obvious. Is it working?
Please come over. I need you.
I would say don't ever call or text me again, but I don't actually mean it and I know you'd listen.
I used that same joke like an hour ago I cant believe you found it funny.
It pisses me off you won't ask me out already.
I look forward to your daily messages.
You're actually worth the extra expense texting brings to my life.
I really hope nobody ever reads these.
Your filthy mind is actually slightly intriguing.
I can't tell if you actually meant what you just said.
Subtext. Fuck this.
Yes, I can't make it tonight is code for I no longer find you hot.
Yes, as a matter of fact I am freezing you out.
No, as a matter of fact I am not busy but I will say anything to make it seem like I am.
It drives me nuts you say "LOL" after every single thing.
How am I supposed to know for sure if you really got stuck somewhere?
I don't think you realize how much it kills me to analyze your stupid texts.
I reread anything you send me with the word "beautiful," "cutie," or "love" in it about 10 times.
If you text me every morning at the same time, the morning that you don't I will interpret as a sign that it's over.
You drive me crazy.
You're annoying.
I HATE YOU
I LOVE YOU.

And here's the thing. If I can't even find the nerve to text these things, how am I supposed to say them out loud?

The only serious post I will ever make

I found this quite touching and it really hit hard. Remember to reach out to people:

"We live our lives, we do whatever we do, and then we sleep—it’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so."

Points to anyone who can guess where this came from. No googling

In Honor of My Birthday

Ok, so I know it's a little immature to glorify in one's own birthday, but I got to thinking about something today.

I have a really good memory
Seriously. names. other people's birthdays. addresses. I could recite scenes from movies verbatim since I could talk.
I have very clear memories of my 4th birthday (green dress), my 5th (got pro photos taken; i was not happy), my 6th (was sick), my 8th birthday (afternoon party with school friends) and everything after that.

But.
I cannot for the life of me remember what I did on my 7th birthday....Seriously, what was I doing that whole year??? Did something completely horrible happen that I chose to block that year out of my mind???
Did I get attacked by a swan?
Did my parents forget my birthday (unlikely, but just wondering if a 1st grade version of 16 candles might have transpired here)?
Is it like that creepy dystopian Lowry book where everybody has blank memories except flashes of like, red apples, or green grapes or something?
Did i get hit in the heat with a dart because believe it or not thats what i played with a child?
Or was it just so horrifyingly dismal and boring that my mind now skips over it? It's seriously like nothing ever happened. Like i just went from 6 to eight in one fell swoop (very macbeth of me to use that phrase, right?). In all honesty, I think I just developed really high standards really early and life, and its possible that my 7th birthday just didnt quite rise to the occasion.

And if thats true, does that mean i need to keep topping my previous birthday every year? Thats gonna be hard work. seriously, i dont know if im that talented. It's like my friend, who for anonymity's sake I'll call.....Clovis. Clovis says that I'm just so awesome and so the [expletive] that I just dont have time for nonsense. Any maybe the very definition of nonsense in my life was my 7th birthday.

Poor my 7th birthday. It wasn't like it was its fault or anything. it just lacked the drive, the passion, the sheer awesomeness of, say, my 15th birthday. Now that was cool. Getting the Bon Jovi gold plated record was about the coolest thing ever. Or like my 10th birthday when i got to ride around in a limo all afternoon. Or my 13th when i got my first iPod. It was pretty and blue and beautiful. No wonder my 7th birthday feels inferior. I should really do something to make it feel better. Send my 7th birthday flowers, or something, tell my 7th birthday that its ok, you're quiet, reserved, you make people come to you. You dont try to make statements like the other birthdays. So what if you're not as memorable. I'm sure the cake was good....

Do You Remember Me, Gerald Ford?

Wow, I haven't posted in so long. Moment of Silence
Anyways, moment over.
I wanted to talk about something that has been troubling me for a number of weeks, but first I have to recall a bit from Dean Martin Celebrity Roast I watched when I was a kid.
Rich Little (famed impression-doer, very good) gets up to do his roasting when he decides to impersonate President Gerald Ford for a few laughs. He backs away from the podium, walks back toward it, trips, and says "Hello, do you remember me? If you don't, I have an American Express Card..."
Oh, I have a point. I promise.
So, I'm not actually sure what that whole bit means (other than the tripping bit, which was rather tickling), or why it's particularly funny, and not just plain strange. But I have to say, the other day while I was at work, I thought about this.
Why, you ask? Good Question
I work in retail, and because the computer isn't capable enough to differentiate among debit or credit (damn you technology, I thought you were supposed to think about this stuff so I wouldn't have to!), I am obligated to ask customers every time they pay with a card if it's debit or credit.
So I did that. And, mind you, half the time I can't even see what kind of card they pull out, and I must admit I'm not paying attention to a whole lot besides how hungry I am or why Keanu Reeves has a career as an actor. See, me...*points to her brain*--not so much up here. Anywho, based on all that, you can imagine my utter confusion one day when I politely and sweetly asked "debit or credit?" and the infamous customer said, "It's an American Express Card."
Ok...I know my brain is designed to process answers to questions I didnt actually ask, (such as, "will that be debit or credit?" and not "what kind of card do you currently possess in your hand?") but that still doesn't really help very much. Luckily my manager was around to explain to the customer that there's no way I could have actually known that AmEx only makes credit cards, barring any sort of actual interest in the world of finances. No thanks, mister. In any case, this has happened to me twice already and I only have to ask...
Why do people assume that random young people actually know that certain companies don't make ATM cards? Furthermore, why do they assume we even care? I'm sure it was all explained to me very carefully (some day, sometime....I cant say I was paying much attention....I want pie), but I would really rather someone not use "It's an American Express card" as a response to debit or credit. It's two words people, just PICK ONE!

Jesus vs. JBJ

So....the eternal question has finally arisen. The question everyone from Eli Manning to Bono to Dean Martin's corpse have been asking. A brilliant and hilarious new friend took the time to point out that "Eddie Izzard gets top billing" over both of these guys (much to my glaring chagrin), but I figured I would throw the conundrum to the people.

WHO WOULD WIN IF JESUS AND JON BON JOVI GOT INTO A FIGHT???
Here's the breakdown:

• Jesus has the whole eternal life thing going on

• But JBJ would tear it up with his guitar. Maybe Richie would even lend him his 12 string

• But Jesus has a beard

• But JBJ had all that hair before, I'm positive he could summon up their magic somehow.

• But can JBJ feed thousands of people with just 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish? I dont think so!

• But Jesus never had a pork roll sandwich. Take that!

• There's that whole millions of disciples thing Jesus has going for him

• Umm... in how many languages can you say 120+ millions records sold??

• But Jesus has a holiday (several, actually) completely dedicated to him

• JBJ owns an (arena) football team. And they can build houses!

• Jesus gets all the ladies...Mary Magdalene, and that resurrected guy's sister

• HEY! Have you seen those eyes on JBJ??!! Total chick magnets

• Jesus can raise you from the dead

• Lovely things happen when JBJ turns around

• Jesus can walk on water

• JBJ can dance his cute little ass off!

So, as you can see, this isn't just something you can decide on your own. It takes months, even years of research to decide these things. You can probably tell which camp I'm in...let's face it, the whole robe-and-sandals thing does nothing to show off one's sixpack. Tight tees that are ripped at the shoulder, however, do wonders for the eyes. Nevertheless, I will let the American public decide for itself. Hey, its gotta be easier than that other election we had recently, right?

A Message From Heather Mills's Prosthetic

A journal entry from none other than Heather Mills's fake leg:

Dear Diary
I hate her! I hate her! I hate her! All she does is limp on me and knock my cold plasticky leg against Paul McCartney's vast fortune. She doesn't even bother to shave me like she does that other woman! Speaking of which...God, I hate her too. She's so smug, trudging her fleshy and smooth, and porcelain figure along beside me, always bragging that she's the real one, she's the "original." whatever. I'm the reason that slag Heather still walks. I think I'm gonna have to start seeing a therapist about this inferiority complex I've got cooking up.

Although...I'm still laughing at that day I pulled the great escape while she was dancing that one time...too too funny. I was sitting there dreaming about one of those cool roller coaster rides....and then one happened for real! I bet the "real" one was wishing she could do that. And here I am, still here, still having to contribute to the well being of the only woman/furniture hybrid that ever used to be a stripper. She doesn't even appreciate me! She just looks at me like the most convenient walking stick on the planet. It's ok, I only save her life on a daily basis. Forget daily, on a momentary basis. We'll just call it a continuous basis.